Alone
by cheertennis12
Summary: ONE-SHOT, when a single piece of plastic has the potential to fundamentally alter the trajectory of two unsuspecting individual's lives / Season 17, KELLI IS PREGNANT, good ol' speculation


**Two one-shots in 48 hours, lowkey feeling pretty accomplished right about now. If you've been on twitter today, you know the inspiration for this that JUST WOULDN'T GET OUT OF MY HEAD, so I had to go for in, and subsequently get nothing else accomplished. You're welcome :)**

* * *

 _"Mandy darlin', if you keep squintin' like that you're gonna end up with crows feet before you're twelve."_

The wise words of your grandma were, of course, the first indication that there was a problem, and after a solid two months of headaches and bluffing your way through class because you were too ashamed to admit to your teacher that you couldn't read the board, you'd become the proud owner of a new pair of wire-rimmed, Walmart glasses in fifth grade. But even your glasses (or rather, the contacts you'd upgraded to for your sixteenth birthday) weren't enough to stop you from squinting at the object in front of you and convincing yourself that it wasn't just a cruel joke of your imagination.

You held the stick in your hand, turning it every which-a-way. Was that second line _really_ pink, or…? It was a little faded, just enough to give your mind the liberty of self-denial. You'd been inexplicably fatigued lately, a little more irritable than normal, and eating everything in sight as long as your stomach decided to cooperate. All of that could be explained away without even mentioning the "p word". A heavy caseload under the pressure of being short-staffed, the nagging weight that just hadn't quite disappeared after the skeletons of your old squad had dropped by and wreaked havoc on your new life, and of course, getting used to the fact that you were waking up alone and going to bed alone and doing everything else in between. Alone.

It wasn't until you'd caught a case this afternoon and sat through an interview at the hospital with Olivia that you'd begun to doubt your excuses. _Are you on birth control?_ She'd asked the nineteen-year-old waitress who'd been the latest victim in a string of especially disturbing ambushes, and it was some little nuance in her question that sent you into a flurry of panic.

Your momma had popped you out at the ripe age of seventeen, and you were a living, breathing repercussion of her ignorance and immaturity. You swore you would _never_ be your mother. You'd been the one to do your own research on the topic, hang on to every word taught in good ol' Georgia public school sex ed, and even brazenly march into the Walgreens on Atlanta Highway to buy a box of condoms when you felt it was "time" (actually, you'd come out with three different kinds, because there were .options and you didn't want to be ill-prepared for whatever was to come _)_

But had been a rough spring. You'd spent night after night crunching numbers and filling out forms and chasing perps up and down the streets of Manhattan. With Nick out on medical leave, and then making the confounding decision to pack up and move to the opposite coast, it had left you perpetually short staffed, and you'd been given no choice but to pick up the slack in any way possible. You'd missed a couple pills here and there, but it hadn't been of much concern to you; you may have been reckless in your personal life but you weren't stupid. You'd _always_ used protection. Always. Except…

You wished your hands would stop shaking, but every time you could bring yourself to look at the stick in front of you, you were once again filled with that sense of impending doom. No matter which way you looked at it, flipped it upside down, frontwards and backwards, the results read the same way.

You were pregnant.

To be honest, you _weren't_ surprised. From the moment the potential had dawned on you in that bleak hospital room, you just knew, as much as you wanted to fight the logic. The whole time you'd slipped into the bodega on the way home and purchased a test, making it undeniable clear to the merchant that you did _not_ want to engage in small talk, you knew. And now looking back, the irritability, the nausea, the weight gain and fatigue, it all made sense now, and you could kick yourself for missing it.

That line was _definitely_ pink.

You had never been sure if you even _wanted_ kids. You'd all but raised your sister, and see how great _that_ turned out. You were far from the maternal type, and babies were tiny, and loud, and oh so intimidating for something of such small stature. But it was the commitment that you feared the most, the constant headache of keeping track of a person with their own will and the logistics to being tied to your child's father for the rest of your life.

The fath—the father.

Oh.

As much as you almost _wished_ the math pointed to Jim… James.. John(?), or whatever the name was of the guy you'd stumbled home from the bar with the other weekend was, it didn't add up. The thought of this still-hypothetical (you weren't going to allow yourself to turn this into a concrete idea quite yet) child being the spawn of a man you could never track down still allowed you to maintain a certain amount of independence and freedom; _you_ could be the one to call the shots. But there was no way. There was _one_ man you'd been with this spring; one possibility.

You had to tell him though; you'd _never_ be able to live with yourself if you kept something like this away from the only other person whom it concerned, as much as you wanted to protect your dignity. He'd never let you do this alone, and that was the biggest blessing and the ultimate curse. You'd wanted him to stay; there was no denying that. But you were also entirely too proud to ask, because everything between the two of you was so indeterminate. You were no reason for him to stay, as much as you wished you were, like maybe if you'd had more time together to sort things out, or if you hadn't had to keep your relationship such a secret for its duration, that maybe this whole heartbreak would be different.

A drink. You wanted—no, you _needed_ a drink, something to calm you down and smooth you over and make you calm down enough to think rationally. You shake your head to try to clear your thoughts, all but ignoring Frannie as you finally emerge from the bathroom. Her mood is restrained as she senses your distress, following quietly behind you as you traipse towards the kitchen.

You pour yourself a glass of wine, allowing the red to splash against the crystal as it fills up, but as you bring the glass to your lips, you're immediately filled with a sense of regret. _What_ are you doing right now? You're _pregnant,_ Amanda. You'd paid enough attention in college biology to know that there _was_ in fact a baby inside of you, a little person with ten fingers and ten toes and a heartbeat. And regardless of any future decisions regarding the course of action, you certainly weren't going to do something _else_ irresponsible.

You sigh as you tilt your glass into the sink, watching twenty bucks of Merlot flush down the drain. There was another type of high you were craving, one temporary and visceral, but that you constantly fought to not control your every waking thought. You needed the high, the thrill, the _life_ that sliding those chips across the table brought you. But no, you'd worked so hard to claw your way back out of the depths, and to ruin it at the one moment you needed to have your life together more than ever…. _Come on, 'Manda. Be rational._

You needed a distraction, and as you take mental inventory of the people in your life, you realize just how short the list of ones you truly trust is. There's no way you would go to Liv about this, not after everything that's happened and the reparations that are just beginning to be made. Carisi was… Carisi, and you hadn't talked to your sister in nearly two years. Fin was your best bet, but he was out of town this weekend. ( _A fishing trip,_ he had claimed, but you highly suspected it was a cover for a guys weekend in Atlantic City and he felt guilty confessing that to you. You found it endearing and patronizing all at the same time)

You feel like you should cry, but you're too exhausted, too confused for tears. Too overwhelmed to believe this is actually your new reality. Unplanned pregnancies happened to teenagers, not thirty-three year old women with stable jobs, steady incomes, and a roof over their head. And although common sense screamed that you _did_ have a choice in the matter, you knew that an alternative option would never be a viable option for _you_. Or for Nick, and as much as you wanted to deny him the privilege, he _was_ a part of this, whether you liked it or not.

You shakily grab your phone and thumb through your list of recent calls. It pains you a bit to realize just how far down you have to scroll to land on his name. It had been nearly three weeks since you'd last spoken, a far cry from the _we'll keep in touch_ you'd agreed on when you said your goodbyes the morning he packed up his car to drive cross-country. The two of you, you'd never been good at the emotional investment, and when you didn't have the physical to sustain your non-relationship, there wasn't much to rely on.

You find yourself praying he won't answer and silently begging him to, because you're not so sure when you'll work up the nerve to do this again, especially without the crutch of alcohol to provide the extra boost of courage. As the phone rings, your mind races through the potentials. Do you beat around the bush? Do you just come out and say it? Spend a little time testing the waters to ensure he's in an approachable mood? Do you tell him how much you desperately miss him and you want him to come home and right now you just _need_ him to come back home and be here with you and promise it's going to be okay?

How are you going to raise a kid with a man who lives 3,000 miles away? Would he _really_ choose you and this new life over his fresh start in California? Would you be willing to give up your dream job and follow him to the West Coast to make it work? What about Zara and Gil, would you—

"Hello?"

Your breath hitches in your throat, and your tongue rubs like sandpaper as you feel your heart about to beat out of your chest. What are you going to say, what are you going to… what?

"Amanda, you there?"

"Y—Yeah, hey!" You try your best to sound convincing, like you're just an old friend calling for a chat in your abundance of spare time. You can just imagine him grinning on the other side of the phone as he repeats his warm greeting, and suddenly, you feel an unmistakable twinge of guilt for the mess you're about to throw him in to.

Nick is a _good_ _guy_ —a guy who has already been dealt a bad hand when it comes to women and children and custody and life in general. His heart is good, and his intentions always the best, and you just feel so damn _irresponsible_ right now. _You_ were the one slack on your birth control, _you_ are the one who could have picked up Plan B the night the unexpected just kind of… _happened_ , and although it certainly takes two to tango _,_ you know that you're the one ultimately at fault for your lapse in preventative measures.

"Amanda, is everything alright?" You can hear the panic slip into his voice, and it becomes apparent your forced excitement was a terrible façade. Your heart starts pounding, and you can hear it in your ears just like you feel it in your chest, because no, you can't, no, no…

"Amanda…" The room starts spinning now, with no sign of stopping, and no way this will ever be the same and how your whole entire life is turning on a dime and the next two words, the first time you'll ever say them out loud, will fundamentally change your life forever.

"I'm pregnant."


End file.
